Buttons
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: Virgil sews on some buttons. Very fluffy!


_A little thing that came out of nowhere while I was randomly sewing together a braided rug the other day…I'm more in the mood for angst, hurt/comfort, etc., but noOOoo, my mind spits out fluff!_

 _Oh, and my timeline might be a bit wonky, but oh well._

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

Sewing a button back onto a shirt always makes me smile – not just because it's a skill not every man possesses, but also because it wasn't Mom or Grandma who taught me how to do it.

The day I learned, I was fourteen years old, and the house was chaotic – we were still in the long, long process of recovering some semblance of balance after Mom had died. Dad was crazy busy with work most of the time. Scott, between his schoolwork, his sports schedule and running after younger brothers, was beginning to wear thin. John tried to help – when he wasn't absorbed by his latest research project or lost in a new book. Gordon had recently become interested enough in swimming to go to lessons after school; Alan, for lack of anything better to do, usually tagged along and played with his toys beside the pool.

Normally Scott would drop me off with the youngest two, and I'd work on my homework while Alan played – interrupted occasionally by a loud splash and a shout of, "Hey, guys, watch _this_!"

That day, though, I had taken the bus directly home. I remember pausing for a moment when I first stepped inside, startled by the profound _silence_ of the empty house. With a family as big as ours, solitude was a rare treat.

I hurried upstairs and took a quick shower, then ducked into my room and opened my closet.

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I reached for one hanger in particular – the hanger that held a crisp, white, collared shirt. Grandma had taken me out to buy it a few days earlier because I had a piano recital scheduled – and the recital was important enough that dress attire was required.

I hooked the hanger over the closet door and reverently smoothed a wrinkle from the shirt sleeve. I hadn't had many occasions to wear dress clothing, and I have to admit that I thought I looked pretty sharp and professional in a white shirt and black suit jacket. My whole family was going to come to the recital, too – well, all except for Dad, but I would have been surprised if he had been able to take the time off.

I reached to unbutton the shirt and pull it from the hanger – and frowned when it fell open. That wasn't a good sign because I _knew_ that I had buttoned it before I put it away. Gordon or Alan must have been in my closet. If they had messed it up…

The shirt slithered off the hanger, and I gave it a quick once over – no stains, no rips, no buttons.

 _Wait_ just a minute…no _buttons_? Really? _Really?_

I flipped the seam back and forth, running my fingers up and down the shirt as if I had somehow simply missed the buttons the first time. But no, I had been correct. Someone had removed every single button from my dress shirt.

Normally my next course of action would have been to stomp down the hall, hollering my younger brothers' names at the top of my lungs, but since they weren't home, I instead flung the shirt onto my bed and dropped into my desk chair with a groan of pure, unadulterated dismay.

My life was over.

Scott would be home in forty-five minutes to pick me up, and I'd have to tell him I couldn't go. I didn't know what I'd say to my piano teacher the next time I saw her. And I didn't know what I'd tell Grandma, who had faithfully listened to me practice my songs over the previous few weeks.

All the other piano students would think that I had chickened out.

And Dad might even wonder why he bothered to pay for my lessons and tell me I'd have to give piano up entirely.

I was so caught up in my world of angst that I barely registered the sound of the front door opening downstairs. Quick footsteps trotted up the stairs and hurried past my room – then paused and came back more slowly.

"Virgil?"

I looked up. "Dad? What are you doing here?"

Dad shifted his weight back and forth, glancing down the hall. "I left some papers on my bedside table last night, and I need them for my meeting this evening." He looked me up and down, the wheels clearly turning in his head. "Recital tonight, right? Sorry I can't come."

I groaned and turned away, letting my head thunk down onto my desk. "That's okay, because I'm not going either," I mumbled.

"What?" Dad exclaimed. "Of course you're going! You've been practicing for this for weeks! You're not nervous, are you?" He took another step into my room.

"No," I sighed. "It's my shirt – it's ruined!" I gestured toward the garment on my bed.

Dad strode briskly over to the bed and picked the shirt up, shaking it out. "Ruined? It can't be ruined – didn't you just buy…oh. I see. Hmm, yes, that is a bit of a problem, isn't it?" He fingered one of the bits of thread that used to hold a button, frowning slightly. Abruptly, he turned and looked at me. "What time is Scott picking you up?"

I sat up straighter. "In about forty minutes. Maybe if you dropped me off at the store on your way back to the office –"

Dad held up a hand to stop me, a smile lighting up his eyes. "I've got a better idea," he said. He glanced at his watch. "We should have just enough time. Follow me."

He led me down the hall to his bedroom; I dropped onto the edge of the bed and watched as he fished around in a dresser drawer. After a few seconds, he sat down next to me, holding a small plastic case. He smoothed out the shirt across his knees and, to my surprise, opened the case and pulled out a needle.

The slim, shining bit of metal looked incongruous pinched delicately between his big, blunt fingers. For some reason, his hands always still looked rough and worn even though it had been two decades since he'd left his father's farm.

I watched in silence as he cut a length of white thread and deftly threaded the needle. He passed me the case.

"Here, see how many white buttons are in here," he said. "If we have to, we can take a couple off one of my shirts just for today."

Lots of buttons of various sizes and colors were rattling around in the bottom of the case: I handed Dad the first white one I found and fished out several others. "I think there's enough," I said. "I wonder who took the other ones – I mean, you know how Gordon is, but…"

"I don't think it was Gordon," Dad said. He poked the needle through the back of the seam, positioned the button over it, and then pulled the needle up in a long, easy movement. "He sure likes to joke around, but he knows how much this recital means to you."

A few more quick movements, and the button was attached, the thread tied off and cut. Dad took the case back and handed me the needle.

"Here, you do this one," he said.

"Me? _Sew_?" I protested.

Dad placed the shirt in my lap. "Sure. Why not? It's a skill everyone should learn – I can't tell you how many times I've had to fix a shirt or a pair of pants just minutes before an important meeting!"

I sighed and dubiously poked the needle up through the button. "Like this?"

"Perfect," Dad said. "Just careful you don't poke your finger – remember, you're playing the piano tonight!"

The time flew past as Dad and I talked and laughed and sorted out a few thread tangles along the way. Just as I tied off the final length of thread and snipped it short, we heard the front door open.

"Virg!" Scott called. "You ready?"

"Coming!" I shouted back. I leapt off the bed and pulled the shirt on, hurriedly buttoning it up. I grinned at Dad. "Thanks," I said.

He smiled back. "Any time. Have fun tonight, Virgil. I wish I could be there to see you play, but…well, you know…" His smile faded a little.

I ducked my head. I wished he could be there too, but I didn't want him to feel bad about it. "It's okay," I said.

"Virgil!" Scott shouted.

"I'm coming!" I repeated. "See you later, Dad!"

I dashed out of the room, snatched up my suit jacket from my bedroom, and clattered down the stairs.

Scott stood with the door half open, impatiently jangling his car keys. He looked me up and down. "Looking good," he said. "What took you so long?"

I smiled. "Just a little wardrobe malfunction. It's all good now, though." As I followed Scott out the door, I turned around and caught a glimpse of Dad at the top of the stairs; he grinned and winked at me.

At the recital hall, Scott went in the front door to sit with Grandma, John, Gordon, and Alan while I hurried around to wait in the back with the other pianists. After a tense half hour in the back room, listening to the muffled sounds of the other students' pieces, it was my turn to play.

I marched resolutely out onto the platform, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach as I looked out over the sea of faces. My favorite trick to combat stage fright was to find one smiling face and pretend that I was playing for that person alone. Sometimes I chose Grandma; sometimes I chose Scott. Once in a while, it was Alan – that kid had a grin that could light up a room. I knew better than to look at Gordon, though – he refused to acknowledge the difference between a piano recital and a football game, and tended to cheer as though I had just scored a touchdown if I so much as met his eyes.

As I walked out on the stage, I searched the crowd for that grouping of familiar faces. Perhaps I'd play for John, I thought – he had seemed to particularly enjoy this set of songs. He didn't tend to smile very openly, but I could visualize the warmth in his eyes and his quiet nod of appreciation as my fingers danced their way through the difficult parts of the melodies.

I spotted my family almost immediately; they'd managed to stake out seats dead center and right near the front of the hall. My eyes met Grandma's, then Scott's – skipped over Gordon's – then John's and Alan's…and then stopped with a jolt on a pair of warm eyes I totally had not expected to see.

Dad.

With his smiling face in my mind's eye, I sat down and played like I've never played before. When it was over, and I stood to take my bow, the pride on Dad's face made me feel like I was going to bust right through the freshly-sewn buttons on my crisp white shirt.

Afterward, Dad took us all out for ice cream, and that joyful night of family and laughter shines brightly in my memory.

It came to light that Alan had taken the buttons off my shirt, not realizing the importance of the garment. He'd used some of Mom's old nail polish to paint half the buttons (and, as we later discovered, half of his bedspread) red and had brought them to school so he could demonstrate tic-tac-toe for show and tell.

He pulled them out of his pocket and tipped them onto the table, his face remorseful. For one split second, I was tempted to be angry, but then Dad started laughing, and then I saw the humor in the situation too. We ordered another round of ice cream and played several rousing games of tic-tac-toe with buttons and napkins.

It's been a long time since that day. Now Dad is gone – missing, courtesy of the Hood – and all we have left are memories and the hope that he's not gone forever.

Actually, I shouldn't say that's all that we have left – we have the character that Dad instilled in each of us. We have the stewardship of Tracy Industries and the wealth that goes along with that. We have the Thunderbirds. And we have all the miscellaneous little bits of wisdom and life skills that Dad imparted to us throughout the years.

Such as sewing on buttons.

"Here, you do this one."

"Me? _Sew_?" Alan protests.

I hand Alan a threaded needle. "Sure. Why not? It's a skill everyone should learn!"

Alan pokes the needle cautiously up through the button. "Like this?"

"Perfect."


End file.
